


Finis Vitae Sed Non Amoris

by insominia



Series: Hopeless Romantic [2]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insominia/pseuds/insominia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arcade talks to an old friend and argues with a rifle. Craig Boone was always the thoughtful one, a little thing like death wasn't going to stop that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finis Vitae Sed Non Amoris

The gravel on the footpath crunched underfoot, a stark contrast to the hard concrete of the paved streets. Years of walking the Mojave had left the courier unused to such even and solid terrain, though she didn't miss having to empty a desert out of her boots at the close of each day. At least the barrel cacti, placed either side of the front door, served as a little reminder of the desert she called home. She paused for a moment, inhaling the dry, subtle scent of the flowers, admiring the place. The sign out front bore Arcade's name, a smaller, faded Followers' symbol beside it. Below, someone had planted more cacti, the flowers bringing some much needed colour to the white building, white sign, even the white fence that enclosed it; a house straight from the pages of a pre-war magazine. The courier smiled, despite everything, and turned, rapping on the door lightly, her shoulders protesting under the weight of her pack.

When Arcade opened the door, she couldn't help but beam at him, circumstance notwithstanding. He didn't smile back. Merely, he stood back from the door, allowing her entry, and closed it wordlessly. The lines around his eyes softened a little, at least. He was ageing gracefully, she thought, though he'd be loathe to admit it. His hair was only a little thinner, a little greyer since the last time they had crossed paths. His hand lingered on the door handle, as though he hadn't quite decided whether or not she was welcome, before he eventually removed it, gestured to the sitting room and disappeared into the kitchen. It was probably the longest she had seen him go without talking.

The interior matched the outside for domestic bliss. Solid bookshelves displayed Arcade's humble, but impressive, collection of medical texts, framed by the occasional Latin volume. Stray editions of the Milsurp Review, well thumbed and seemingly out of place, littered themselves among the more arcane tomes. A desk in the corner of the room declared the presence of a Followers Doctor with paperwork in abundance, empty syringes and surgical tubing scattered around the place. A chemistry set bubbled away quietly, another stimpak concoction brewing no doubt.

But while almost everything in the room seemed to belong to Arcade, the presence of someone else was everywhere. The courier could see him in the plastered walls, the mends in the carpet, the way the desk chair had been upholstered to give extra support to the lower back (Arcade had been complaining in recent years) and of course, the old scoped rifle hanging over the mantelpiece.

They'd gone to Cottonwood Cove, Nelson, the Fort and finally the Dam with that rifle, as much a part of Craig Boone as his own arm or his beret. The courier was still standing there, looking at the rifle, remembering, when Arcade joined her bearing two cups of, what looked like, actual honest to God coffee, not that barely palatable mush she brewed from tobacco chew and mesquite. He placed the mugs on the coffee table and sat. He still hadn't said a word.

With what strength remained in her protesting arms she lowered her pack, taking a seat on the sofa opposite him, her joints relieved to find respite at last. She took a sip of the coffee, marvelling at the taste, and finally broke the silence that surrounded them, "you're angry," she muttered, though she spoke so quietly she might not have said a word. Arcade arched an eyebrow. She wondered if this was his personal best for silence, "you know, if this is about the last thing you said-"

"You know about that?" he asked, surprise forcing him to speak at last.

The courier gave a small smile, relieved that he had, at last, spoken, "few months ago I was delivering a package to the Strip. Bumped into him in the Tops. He was on leave. Was surprised to see him, figured he spent his leave at home...here...with you...Anyway he uh...he said you kicked him out." Across the table Arcade flushed. "But he didn't hold it against you. He understood. You being a doctor an' all, not wanting him to go shooting people full o' holes just 'coz the NCR didn't like them that week. He said he knew it didn't change the way you felt...you know," she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, "about him." She cleared her throat awkwardly, "sorry, he was always better at the romantic stuff than I was."

"He said all that?" Arcade asked, more surprised that Boone had actually spoken, than the content of what amounted to a positive speech as far as the sniper was concerned.

"He was drunk," the courier said, wryly, " _very_ drunk," she added, noting that Arcade's expression had resumed it's brooding angry look. "So...uh...if that's why you're pissed then...you know...there's no need..."

"Did you know he was married?" Arcade interrupted with a hint of venom the courier had never heard in all their many years of friendship. He took her blank stare as a sign she didn't. "Neither did I. He failed to mention that in all the time we were together. The desk sergeant down the road told me when I asked what was to become of his body. She told me ever so politely that that would be his _wife's_ decision. Naturally I told her Carla Boone was already dead, but their records showed another wife. A more recent wife. A 'must have happened some time between us moving down here and him getting shot' recent wife. So you'll forgive me if whatever anger I harbour towards myself for my last, poetic words to him being, 'fuck off and don't come back til you're done killing people,' rather pales in comparison to finding out my partner of too many years to count has been married all this time. If anything I think I was rather justified in telling him to fuck off."

He was on his feet now, pacing angrily, his hand running through his ever thinning hair. He paused to stare at the rifle, the object that had bore the brunt of his tirades since Boone had left for the last time, and snarled, "probably some cheap Gomorrah girl. Got him drunk, dragged him to the embassy and is right now laughing her way to a military pension. No doubt selling his stuff to cover her clandestine jet habit and-" he broke off, an impassable lump in his throat. The back of his eyes burned but he refused to give way to the emotions that threatened him, and had been threatening him since the trooper from the base down the road knocked on his door. Most families got the C.O. Arcade got a kid conscript who felt he ' _ought_ ' to know.

The courier was moving behind him, he took a deep breath and composed himself. When he turned he felt the wind knocked out of him, as though she had punched him in the gut. She had done no such thing of course, instead she had produced a polished, wooden crate from her pack and placed it on the coffee table facing him. The NCR emblem burnished into the lid shone brightly and underneath; _C. Boone_ carved so badly, a child might have had more success.

"It _was_ at the embassy," the courier said, quietly, "but he wasn't drunk and I'm not a cheap Gomorrah girl."

She could count on one hand the times she had seen Arcade rendered speechless, but never before had she seen him quite so stunned, staring at her, as he was now, as though she might have grown a second head. Given the amount of radiation she had been exposed to over time that possibility wasn't entirely out of the question. "He knew the NCR wouldn't send you his stuff if something happened to him. He didn't want you to have to through _that_ argument. We got to talking about it when we caught up...ended up at the embassy couple of days later. He wanted to make sure you'd be looked after." She dropped a hefty bag of caps on the top of the box. "I know you don't _need_ it, but he wanted to make sure you got it anyway. Said you were entitled to it for putting up with him and the NCR all these years."

Arcade was still staring.

The courier giggled nervously, "Arcade...you gonna say something? You're starting to freak me out."

"You... _you_ married _Craig_?"

Arcade hadn't laughed for a long time. Not since the last time Boone was home and they hadn't been arguing the finer points of NCR ideology. Well...Arcade had been arguing. But now he laughed, long and hard, until he almost doubled over, forcing him to sit again. "You and Craig got married?"

The courier's cheeks had flushed as red as Boone's beret, "yeah...well it was nothing to write home about. Crocker said a few words, we signed a paper, went for a walk, ended up at the Thorn backing Deathclaws. Then we ended up fighting the Deathclaws. Spent the rest of the night on our backs at your old place, Julie took our winnings just to cover the cost of the stitches."

"Magical," Arcade snorted.

"Should've seen the dressing down Boone got for almost 'rendering himself unfit for duty'. They almost gave him a court martial." She shuffled in her seat, taking Arcade's hand in her own, "I think he was expecting something like this to happen," she said, quietly. “He said he was getting slower, his eyes weren't as sharp..." Arcade physically flinched, but she carried on, holding his hand in a tender grip. "He wasn't gonna tell his C.O. You know what he was like, in the field or nothing. He didn't want to push a desk job and he didn't want to tell you. Said you'd shout at him some more."

Arcade snapped, "damn right I would have, what the hell was he thinking? He knew he might be putting himself in danger and he didn't tell anyone?! Did he _want_ to die?! Did he not think that maybe there might be people invested in him _not dying_?!"

The courier sighed the sigh of someone who had had that very same argument a long time ago, “He was just stubborn, Arcade. Besides he'd lasted as long as he did, 'nother six months and he'd have been back here with you and our little trip to the embassy wouldn't have mattered." She paused, "it hadn't occurred to me he hadn't told you. He didn't say he had in his last letter but that didn't mean nothing. God knows he was worse at writing than he was at talking." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, "I've already arranged for them to bring him home. I hope that's ok..." It was the first time Arcade had ever heard uncertainty in her voice. He nodded and almost laughed again when he saw the relief flood through her.

She rose, slipping on her considerably lighter pack, "I'm sticking around for a while longer. Look me up in the motel if you want. Any time."

He didn't rise to see her out, she smiled at him, her hand lingering for a moment on Boone's crate. She gave it an affectionate tap and with a brief kiss on the doctor's cheek she was gone, he heard the gravel crunching under her footsteps before they faded altogether. Arcade sat for a long time, staring at nothing in particular, his thoughts refusing to latch onto a subject. He just sat.

His eye caught the rifle on the wall and he flushed, remembering how just a few hours ago he'd found himself shouting at it, ' _and you didn't think to tell me you were married? Married,Craig_?!'

Now he snapped something about being made to look foolish which ultimately led to him railing that Boone hadn't thought to tell him what was going on. That seemed to segue nicely into cursing the NCR and the misplaced patriotism that had landed Boone where he was right now. Before he knew it, he was back on his feet shouting at the rifle for the second time that day. "Not that I'm not grateful for all... _this_ ," he waved his hand over the courier's offerings, "but don't you think that having to marry your best friend so that you could come home, because the NCR never supported our ' _arrangement_ ' while you went off and died for them, sort of proves the point I've been making all these years?!"

The rifle, naturally, made no reply, opting to remain motionless and silent, much like Boone if he had been there. "Just like old times," Arcade muttered, grimly and turned his attention to the crate.

He wondered that someone could have collected so little on what had felt like such a long tour, and so much of what had been gathered was junk. A handful of chips for the Tops, a sarsaparilla star cap, a .308 bullet with something that looked like it might have been an attempt at writing carved into it, and of course, much to his amusement, a certificate issued at the embassy confirming the existence of Mrs C. Boone. He turned it over in his hand, more bemused than anything, that even at the time of her 'wedding' the courier hadn't chosen a name; the bride's name listed as ever as 'Courier Six'. He slipped that into a drawer, not so much as a reminder of the event, but perhaps as another reminder of Craig's frequent thoughtfulness.

In the end it was one of the very few things that he kept, the others being the armour Boone had brought back from his and the courier's little spoken of jaunt to Bitter Springs over a decade ago, his shades, the copies of Arcade's letters, his shades and of course his beret.

In a way holding it made everything seem far more final than it had that morning. He turned it over in his hands, marvelling that it should remain so soft, even though it was so well worn. Idly he hoped that wherever Boone was now, someone had seen fit to dress him with a spare. Craig Boone was hardly one for vanity, but he would haunt the Mojave forever until someone returned his beret.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Finis Vitae Sed Non Amoris - The end of life but not of love


End file.
